


Keep Falling

by broadcastdelay



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Living Together, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broadcastdelay/pseuds/broadcastdelay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story begins, as so many stories do, at the crossroads of an end and a beginning. Isaac has lost one temporary home, and moved to another. This one is cozier: it has Scott, and Mrs. McCall. It’s almost like having a family again—if one is desperately, hopelessly in love with one’s surrogate brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This begins, as you may have guessed, at the end of episode 3x04. It’s a story blissfully unaware of the events of 3x05 and any more heartbreak to be visited upon Isaac.

Isaac’s been alone before, often, and he’s been caught in the rain, sans piña colada, more than once. He’s thrown himself upon the kindness of strangers more than anyone ought to, and enough to know that kindness is a relative term. Kindness can be a blind eye; kindness can be a quick death. There are options in his head as he stands in the rain, and he knows them all to be flawed. He knows, too, that for all the options he can think of, there’s no real choice. He’s headed to Scott. His feet have been taking him there since before his mind thought to provide direction; his heart has been pointing him there since the Alpha who chose him was outshone by the Alpha-to-be he wants to choose. _Choice_ is a far-away and gleaming prospect, and Isaac doesn’t think it’ll ever be fully within his grasp. But the McCall house is doable; the light in the bedroom window is visible. It can be enough for now.

When Mrs. McCall answers the door, Isaac puts on his best face. The puppy dog eyes work wonders in any situation; soaked and shivering, he knows himself to be irresistible to a heart with any softness. And Melissa McCall, though life has made her tougher than she ever wished to become, has a terribly soft heart beneath those hospital scrubs. Her eyes are tired and her curls, frizzed with the humidity, hang limp and loose, but her smile is genuine in a way that so many are not.

“Isaac! What are you doing here this late? God, get out of the rain, you’ll catch a cold. You need to carry an umbrella in this kind of weather—unless you’re like Scott, who seems convinced that it’s some sort of manly display not to.”

“Uh, werewolf heath,” Isaac says gruffly, “so, not a big deal.” Because it’s not. It’s not going to kill him. And he can’t say _I don’t own an umbrella._ Can’t admit that all he has, right now, is the soaked-through shirt upon his back. So instead he says, “Can I talk to Scott? And maybe crash here a couple nights? It’s just…” and he doesn’t know how to say this without crying or without making Mrs. McCall hate Derek, and she can’t, it’s not safe for her to, even though some part of Isaac wants her to hate Derek so that maybe he can as well. Instead of just aching.

She seems to know what he’s trying to say though, or at least that he’s trying to _not_ say something. “Yeah, up the stairs, you’ve been here. But, Isaac…” and now she’s the one at a loss, “you know, if you needed—to talk? I’ll be here. Or,” she laughs, a little brittle, “I’ll actually be at the hospital, because I just called back in, but…”

“It’s OK, Mrs. McCall. Thanks.”

As Isaac heads up the stairs, he plays the scene in his head:

He’ll lean casually against the door frame, head tilted insouciantly, completely without care: _Hey, Scott. Roomies?_

He’ll knock first, peek his head in: _Hey, Scott. So, I kind of need a place to stay while Derek deals with some stuff. Cool if I crash here?_

He’ll abandon all pretense and head straight to those arms: _Hey, Scott. Just…hold me?_

But he’s not a girl, and he’s definitely not _that_ girl.

So he just says, “I need a favor.”

And that night as he lies downstairs on the sofa alone, he wonders why he didn’t just say, _hold me_ , after all. It would’ve been braver.

* * *

 

He’d worked with Scott for months before he realized it. They’d been through death-defying experiences together, and he’d known that he trusted Scott with his life, that he admired Scott, looked up to him. He thought it was friendship and a little bit of hero-worship until one day when he saw Scott bent over a sick puppy, stroking it like it was his own child. And that was when Isaac realized that somewhere along the line he’d fallen head over heels in love with Scott McCall.

It was a fairly big revelation, as they go—Isaac had never been in love before. But it didn’t change anything. He just went on with his life, and Scott with his, and nobody had to know if he snuck glances at Scott whenever he could, if he listened for that heartbeat above all others; if, when captured by the Alpha Pack, all that he remembers, besides his mysterious savior, is that he had to live so he could get back to Scott.

And he did. And everyone seemed glad he lived, so that’s something. And there were more things: Scott, rushing to his side in the elevator. Scott, who actually comes when he calls, even though Stiles says that’s like a sign of the apocalypse. And all of it combined, all of Scott just _being_ and _smiling_ just made him fall deeper. Even the god-awful tattoo couldn’t do anything to make him less beautiful.

Now, living in the same house with Scott, he sees so much more. Things that should be wake-up calls and deterrents: the way Scott wakes up in increments, a series of alarm-snooze button-alarm that pierces Isaac’s skull; the way Scott doesn’t wash or even rinse his dishes, and just leaves them sitting in the sink. Isaac pulls pillows over his face; Isaac washes dishes. It feels like he’s taking care of Scott, for a change, sometimes.

“Bro!” Scott says one evening, punching Isaac on the arm, “you don’t have to do so many chores! My mom’s going to think I’m slacking off!”

“You kind of are, Scott.”

“Hey! You’re supposed to have my back. And I have a lot on my plate—werewolf things, work things, school things! No one’s supposed to have time to wash dishes after battling werewolves, saving small animals, _and_ reading _Great Expectations_!”

“You didn’t actually finish _Great Expectations.”_

“No, but I started it! Progress, dude. Plus, it sucked.”

It did, but Isaac finished it anyway, because if there’s anything he can identify with, it’s an orphan falling for a shiny someone he can never have.

* * *

 

There are moments of supreme awkwardness, straight out of every romantic comedy Isaac has ever been forced to sit through: Scott, coming out of the bathroom in nothing but a low-draped towel, water droplets glistening, poised at the ridges of his abs; Scott, on his way for a midnight snack, pouncing on Isaac, sleeping on the sofa, in the middle of and showing the very physical effects of a Scott-filled dream. Scott takes everything with good humor. There’s no sexual tension whatsoever, because for there to be tension there has to be an anchor on each end, and there’s just Isaac, his heartstrings trailing loosely in Scott’s wake. The house is one big locker room, or summer camp, or anything purely platonically puppy-pile-icly innocent.

There are also moments where everything feels easy: Scott, studying with him at the table; Scott, hair rumpled from sleep, falling beside Isaac on the sofa and demanding they spend the day watching reality TV; Scott, saying, “Hey, now we can bike to work together!”; Scott, acting like Isaac riding bitch on bike not built for two is the most normal thing in the world.

Isaac won’t let himself feel at home, but he does feel like he’s wanted. So he pretends like he feels at home; he pretends a lot of things. When Scott slips up and mentions Alison with yearning in his voice, Isaac is the sympathetic friend, with a side dose of _you’re better off without her_ tough love. It happens often, and every time, it hurts all over again. For both of them, but for Isaac most, because he feels Scott’s pain on top of his own.

He’s got all the looks down pat—the cool bad boy, the aloof man of the world, the saucy ingénue. He can play the role he needs to, whatever people need him to be, he can _be_ it, but with Scott he can’t ever seem to hit the right notes. Sometimes Scott just gives him this questioning look, as if to ask what he thinks he’s doing, and _he doesn’t know_ , but he knows it’s bad that Scott can see through it, whatever it is. Life is about the face you put forward, the smiles you lie through, and the closer he is to Scott, the more all the cracks inside him start to show through. And Scott, he’s not as clueless as he used to be, maybe he never was. He’ll be a stoic martyr to protect Alison; he’ll be a good student to give his mom something normal to be proud of; he’ll do the right thing like he always does, but if he ever wanted to he could _break_ Isaac in a way that even Derek couldn’t. It's more than a little terrifying, how much he trusts Scott to not hurt him.  

He’s seen Alison rip Scott’s heart to shreds, attack Scott’s friends (himself included), and believe the worst in Scott when the worse things were closer to home. He knows it wasn’t simple, and he understands the power of dimples, shining hair, and a girl who knows how to kick ass and stand up for herself. He can even admit to himself that with different parents and different circumstances, she might’ve been as perfect for Scott as Scott thinks she is. He’s been in close quarters with her; he can see the appeal. And he understands all too well why Scott keeps going back, keeps letting that open wound fester even as he proclaims he’s moving on and getting closure. But Romeo and Juliet were screwed up for many reasons: family, age, their love-at-first-sight bullshit, all the things that everyone says now but rarely sees play out in front of them so clearly. He kind of liked the play, even the ending—it was inevitable, and he doesn’t like things that try to ignore the inevitable—but he needs Scott to live.

Isaac would be the rebound for him, would be the glue to bind the space where Scott’s heart would be, had he not given it away, blindly and foolishly, and refused to ask for it back. _The wound can’t heal around a void_ , he wants to tell Scott, _you need to have something to put in its place._ He wants to offer himself up into the fissure that no tattoo can cauterize.

But it’s not his place to say, so he tries to make himself simultaneously as invisible and as helpful as possible, so no one will ever think to wish he wasn’t here. His face is as malleable as his destiny, and he can take being ignored far better than being seen. But sometimes, he rethinks this—he just wants Scott, once, to look at him and see him not as pack or as a charity case or as a teammate or a friend but as Isaac, the guy he can’t live without.

He’s not holding his breath for it, but he thinks about it sometimes, the way he thinks about college, the way he thinks about being a writer. It’s a rose-tinted fantasy, fluffy and wonderful, and he cherishes it all the more for knowing it won’t happen like that. He hides his dreams close to his chest, and he says things like, “I’m not very good at writing,” like he’s proud of it even though he fears it. He spills out thoughts as words on pages, and in black-and-white they embarrass him, proclaim his weakness to the world.

_I wrap a scarf around my neck, and it’s a barrier. To the cold winds of the world, the sharp teeth of predators, the covetous gazes of creepy old men. In a scarf, I’m invincible. Sherlock Holmes. I have style, and sass, and I can say things like_ let’s kill them _and it sounds like I mean it, like I could. In a scarf, I think I could. Strangle them, their lives and breaths caught by surprise in taxi doors and evil fallen at my hands, rightfully so._

 

_And then at night when I can’t wear it, I strangle myself instead in the memories that replay as nightmares, and though I can hear the heartbeat of my alpha there’s also the tell-tale thumping hurt of my past, and it drowns out peace. In bed, on my back, I can only be a victim again. For all that I can’t sleep, it feels safer than any previous home, it feels like it might actually be home. Until one day it isn’t, and there, in a flash of glass breaking against the wall, it’s all happening again, and I’m back where I started, except a werewolf. But what good are claws and fangs when your neck is bared to world?_

The words were such a comfort coming out of him onto the page, but when he reads them back they condemn him. When the house is empty, he burns them in the backyard. It feels like a ritual, the kind where you symbolically burn something to let the feelings go, except even when the last remnants have curled into ash, all the feelings are still there.


	2. Chapter 2

One night Isaac wakes to a moan he knows is his own. And even as he pledges anew to tame his thoughts and be stronger than the need for sleep and for Scott, he fears that maybe Scott has heard. Scott’s a sound sleeper—he’s slept through weeks of Isaac’s intermittent nightmares. Once, maybe twice, on the pretense of heading to the bathroom (and there is one downstairs, but he ignores this fact), Isaac peeked in on Scott as he slept. Curled or sprawled, but mouth always a little open, sometimes his tongue peeking out. Not quite lolling, but still so _cute puppy_ that Isaac can’t stand it. For this puppy to be a wolf, capable of destruction but dedicated to protection, is more beautiful than he can endure.

No one comes down, though, and Isaac deals with the mess on his own. He’s grateful, now, that he’s the one who’s been doing the laundry. That if caught he can say _insomnia_ , and it’s been true enough times no one will blink. It makes Isaac worry, though—how close his feelings are to the surface.

He's worried that it's his fragility that made Derek push him away so strongly--that Derek knew he could take pain but didn't think he could handle truth. He can’t even talk to Derek now, even though he knows why Derek sent him away. It took him a few days, and several talks with Scott, Mrs. McCall, even Stiles, all of them saying variations upon _idiot Alpha who can’t act like an adult,_ and all of them looking at Isaac with worried eyes, but he does understand, now, that this was just Derek’s fucked-up way of protecting him. He didn’t know how much he’d miss Derek—their relationship was never an easy one, and once it was clear Isaac’s first loyalty lay with Scott, he could tell Derek took it as a personal insult. Now it’s worse, though, because even though he tries to hear Mrs. McCall’s voice in his mind (“Sometimes people don’t trust themselves to say the right things, so they say the wrong ones that will get the same results. He cares about you, Isaac”) all he hears is breaking glass, and Derek blends with his dad, and he can’t deal with that. He can remember the good times with his dad, because there were so many years of them, but he’s not sure what the good times with Derek were—they were too few and too recent, and too recently shattered.

He’s thinking, and that’s why he doesn’t notice Scott until the other boy is almost close enough to touch.

“Hey,” says Scott, “you OK?”

Isaac jumps a little before he can stop himself. “Oh, yeah, fine. Insomnia,” he says, glad he’d thought what to say beforehand, because otherwise god only knows what would’ve come out.

“Only you would do _laundry_ when you can’t sleep,” Scott says with a fond shake of his head, “like there’s not a perfectly good gaming console right in front of where you sleep.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“You can put it on mute, dude. Also, I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but our washer sounds like a two-legged cat trying to escape from a bathtub.”

Isaac listens for a moment. It does. “Oh, god, I’m so sorry, I woke you up.”

“Hey, no, not a problem. I just wanted to make sure you were OK. And not, like, covering up evidence of a murder or something.” He pauses. “You’re not, right?”

Isaac grins. “The blood stains were a bitch to get out.”

Scott looks at him a little skeptically, then smiles back. “Ha! I totally knew you were joking. OK, I’m gonna go back to bed now, unless you need help burying the body.”

Scott’s padding out of the laundry room, and Isaac is safe, everything is fine, when Scott gives a loud sniff and turns around, incredulous and gleeful in a way that screams _I know something you don’t want me to know._

“Dude, you had a wet dream! That’s, like, awesome.”

Isaac isn’t sure what he was expecting—light teasing, possibly a little mocking, but—“What?”

“We were kind of worried—Stiles had this theory that you were in love with Derek, and so now you could never love again, but who needs love if you’ve got, umm, thoughts, right?”

Isaac would like to die, melt into an inconspicuous little puddle here on the floor that Scott slips and breaks his legs on. “I’m not talking about this. This is weird.”

“No, no, Stiles and I talk about this sort of thing all the time.”

“Stiles is not a good yardstick for what constitutes normal conversation.”

Scott pauses, and Isaac can see him replaying years of conversations in his head. “Huh,” he says, as if surprised to realize it, “you may be right. So—new boundary set! OK! I didn’t see this, and I definitely didn’t say anything awkward about it!” And then he’s bounding up the stairs like a cheerful puppy who just learned a new trick.

Isaac bangs his head against the washing machine.

* * *

But despite all Isaac’s best efforts, it comes out eventually. It was all so avoidable, except he couldn’t, and isn't that just the story of his life.

Stiles was over hanging out, and he finally burst out (Isaac could tell he'd been trying to keep it in, but, _Stiles_ ), “So, let me just say, I was so glad to hear you weren’t in love with Derek. Because I can see the appeal of that jawline, trust me, but, ummm--“

“But you want him all for yourself,” Scott teased.

“What! No! It’s just—he’s obviously a very troubled sourwolf. And young Isaac here is obviously a very troubled sweetwolf. And that’s just too many issues for a healthy relationship.”

“Oh, gee, thanks,” Isaac said.

“No, I don’t mean—I mean, I’m sure you’re worth the effort! For whatever lovely lady or lad you’ve set your sights on! But it’s just good that Derek’s sucky communication skills haven’t broken your heart. Fall in love with someone who can say what they’re thinking, Isaac.”

“Are you offering?” Isaac asked with a smile.

“Oh, no! I mean, not that I wouldn’t maybe be up for that? But, no. That would be weird, right? You do have very nice hair,” he adds generously.

Isaac felt his grin broaden. Sometimes Stiles got on his nerves; he’s not sure when to take him seriously, and for so long he was just that inept benchwarmer who talked a little too much, but since Isaac moved in with Scott, Stiles has been around more, in friend-type rather than combat situations, and it’s nice.

"Thanks,” he said, “but you’re basically the annoying little brother I never wanted.”

“We’re the same age, dude!”

Isaac shot him a look. Stiles huffed.

And then it happened.

“I bet Scott’s much more your type, huh? Short, dark, and handsome? Don’t you just want to pinch his cute little cheeks?”

And Isaac knew Stiles was kidding, tossing out words to fill the air and make Scott smile, but he also knew he didn’t catch his own reaction in time. It was written all over his face, for just a split second, but just long enough for both of them to see how terribly true that statement was.

“Oh,” Stiles said, eyes widening. “Oh. Oh, wow. That’s…awkward. That’s—I’m actually gonna go now and let you two talk this out, OK? Leaving. Leaving. Oh, god, leaving.”

And then Stiles stumbled out the door, and the silence was deafening.

* * *

Isaac can’t look at Scott. Can’t say anything. There was a moment where he could’ve played it off, he thinks desperately, there had to have been a moment, but if so it passed before he could catch it, and Stiles, damn him, just left him alone with Scott.

“Isaac,” Scott whispers, “I didn’t know you felt like that. I’m so—if I’d known I’d have—Isaac, I don’t know what to do here.”

“Right, no, you don’t need to do anything. I mean, this is just—it’s my problem. It’s not something you were supposed to find out. You have Alison, you're waiting—I _know_ that. I have—it just is. I’ll go, I’ll crash with Stiles, you know? It’ll be—it’s—“

“No, that’s not what I—you don’t have to leave. Stiles’ dad, he doesn’t know. Or he doesn’t know enough, for it to be what you need. It’s cool, you know. I mean, is it? It’s—“

“Yeah.”

It isn’t, of course, but if he doesn’t have to leave, if he can just stay, _close_ to Scott, his heart and breath in the background, he can rest. Never sleep, but rest. And in resting, dream the way he can’t when sleeping. Dream of a different world, where things are different, _he_ is different, he’s someone people can love.

He lies awake that night, and it’s a familiar routine that hurts the more because it almost got ripped away, because he messed up yet again. If he could see the mistakes before he makes them, maybe he could be better, but people are a minefield, and Isaac can’t stop himself from moving heart-first and caution later. It’s not a normal way to live, he knows that; it’s not safe and it _hurts_. But it’s all he can do. And so he breathes, matching his breaths to those from the room upstairs, and he imagines that their synchronism is a sign of how they fit, how they belong. When he feels the tears on his cheeks, though, he knows: he’s been broken too many times to match his jagged edges to anyone as whole as Scott.

Scott, who saved him; Scott, who doesn’t want him to get hurt; Scott, who held his hand through the pain; Scott, who smiles at him like he’s something wonderful.

* * *

There are extra layers in their conversations, now. Scott's trying not mention Alison, or love, or caring, or like, or any emotion at all, a whole swath of the human experience one giant trigger warning for Isaac’s poor, broken self. And that hurts even more. Isaac wants Scott, at least, to be able to be free. He never wanted to bother anyone else with his problems. He’s good at holding his problems in, and now they’re all spilled out for the world to see. The tiptoeing around them is a series of concentrated pressure-point punches to the gut. Whenever Scott starts to say something, something genuine, something he feels, and then he cuts himself off to talk about lacrosse, or the animal clinic, or the weather (but at the mention of rain, Scott was apologetically wide-eyed and searching for another topic), it kills Isaac to listen, knowing he’s the reason.

“I’m leaving,” he says, on Friday. “I talked to the Sheriff, and to Danny’s mom. She’s a lawyer and everything, even though I guess this isn’t her specialty, but she’s going to help me file for emancipation, and get it so I can move back into my old house. And I’ll be 18 next year, I have the job, and the house is paid for, so she thinks there shouldn’t be any problems—just a lot of paperwork and some hearings. Sheriff Stilinski’s gonna try to smooth out all the stuff about me never actually going to DCSS, since, you know, the whole jail and break-out thing kind of derailed the way things probably were supposed to work.”

Even a non-werewolf could hear all the lies and complications woven into that explanation, but Isaac doesn’t care because the underlying message is all truth: _I can’t be here anymore._

“You can’t leave!” Scott says, face screwed up in indignation. And god, it’s cute. That face, and that some part of Scott still believes in a world where things work the way they should. Or it’s tragic, that he knows they don’t and asks for it anyway. Isaac doesn’t know any more. He’s done thinking about Scott McCall, his mind and his words and his mouth and the way he throws himself into love and the way he _is._

“Scott, it’s better. I can’t crash on your sofa forever. It’s not comfortable, and I don't think it's completely legal. And your mom, she’s working overtime just for you guys, and she doesn’t need me taking up space and food, and just—look, you know I appreciate everything you guys have done. So much more than I can say. But I just—I need this.”

Scott’s face is getting even more twisted, his bottom lip pushing out in what might be considered a pout. It’s the look of a puppy denied a toy, yanked back by a leash it forgot was there. It’s pulling at everything inside Isaac, not to cave and say _I’ll never leave you, just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it, for you_.

Isaac nods, instead, trying to let that convey something situationally appropriate. He hefts his bag over his shoulder, and he’s halfway out the door when he feels a hand heavy on his shoulder. It’s all he can do to hold back a full-body shudder, and he feels his eyes close against his will. Wants to lean back into that touch and let it guide him to the floor, hold him down like that time in the hall when someone else, _Scott_ , could hold his demons in check when he couldn’t. Wants so many things that aren’t for him.

“You can’t _leave_ , Isaac, _you can’t_. God, Isaac, you’d be all alone! And what if they turn you down? You could get sent to some foster family out of town! You—you wouldn’t have pack!”

“I don’t exactly have much of a pack here, do I?” Isaac laughs, wincing at how bitter it sounds.

“You’ve got me!”

Isaac lets his lip curl even as his heart turns over in his chest. “That’s what Stiles tells you, yeah? And that’s great. But I can’t let you have _me_ , like Stiles does. It just isn’t working.”

Those big brown puppy eyes are sad as anything he’s ever seen before, beyond fairness and comprehension. And he knows Scott doesn’t understand—he’s grateful Scott doesn’t understand. To know someone knows that all it would take is one too many casual affirmations of friendship and love for you to throw your whole heart in their lap, bloody and ripped at the seams—he couldn’t stand it. Because he knows Scott would never take advantage of that kind of power. So Scott would be even more careful, pen in all his love and caring. Isaac can’t do that to him. He can’t do this to himself, either, any more.

He can see Scott thinking, madly, his determination all over his face, and he can’t face that. So he turns around again, and he’s halfway down the drive when he finds himself tackled, facedown on the ground. He should feel trapped, should have claws and fangs and fur out in instinctual self-defense. Under anyone else, he would. But this is the most comfortable he’s been in months, as long as he lets his mind go and doesn’t think about how his heart’s already beating itself out of its cage, with no more preservation instinct than it’s ever had.

“You _can’t_ ,” Scott says again, but this time it sounds more broken than belligerent. Like it’s not something he’s demanding, but something he feels, deeply. “You just _can’t.”_

Isaac shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t stay here, covered in warmth and his Alpha, his alpha with the eyes of a beta and the heart of a protector and the courage to love an enemy. But he does, anyway. “Why, Scott? WHY can’t I leave? You don’t even talk to me anymore; you can’t look at me anymore. I know I ruined things, but staying can’t _fix_ how I feel!”

Then he feels himself flipped over, lets himself relish the manhandling for a moment before he looks up into those eyes, with all the puppy dog bled out into storms and sharpness. “Because I—“ and Scott sucks his breath in like the air holds the words he wants, and then he lets it all back out in a rush that hits Isaac’s lips just before Scott’s own lips do.

For a moment Isaac lets himself feel it, this perfect moment.

“You want this, right?” Scott asks, wrapping his fingers in Isaac’s curls, “right?”

And Isaac freezes. Of course. Scott, who would do whatever it took to protect those he loved, would do this for him. Of course he would. And he wouldn’t even see how it was the worst possible thing he could do, to offer this martyred substitute for Isaac's dreams, sincere affection Isaac can't settle for when he needs passion.

“But you don’t,” Isaac says, though it hurts to say it out loud, “and that’s OK. They’re your feelings. You’ve been a great friend, and for you to—look, I’ll call, we’ll talk, and I’ll just be across town. The house definitely needs some work, but I’ll get Stiles or Danny to help with the cleaning. It’s not gonna be a big deal, it’s just me letting your life get a little bit back to the way things were.”

“But what if I don’t want that?” asks Scott, and he has his stubborn face out in full force. “I like having you here. It _feels_ right.”

Isaac smiles sadly.

“You’re the one who keeps telling me I need better impulse control,” he says. “This is me, trying to act rationally. I’ve _thought_ about this. It’s not working, me being here and feeling the way I do about you, because I want us to be friends--” and he can see Scott trying to cut in with assurances, but he doesn’t need that right now—“and I know we are. But for us to stay friends, I need some space, OK? Where I don’t see you and hear you and smell you all the time, you know? It’s…”

“This feels kind of like a break-up speech,” Scott says, and it's an endearing mixture of wry humor and grumpiness.

Isaac barks out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, you wish you could get rid of me that easily.”

“I really don’t,” Scott says, and Isaac wishes so much that he could appreciate this friendship for what it is, and not need more. He feels incredibly selfish, as he eases out from Scott’s grip, wipes his jeans off and waves goodbye.

And when he turns to look back, once he reaches the road—because he has to look back, it’s a physical need—Scott’s still there on the ground, the puppy left behind while its family went on a vacation, who can’t understand why he couldn’t go too.


	3. Chapter 3

Isaac stays at the Stilinskis’ for a while as the legal system grinds along. There are reasons, like backlogs and processing time, but all that matters is that he is somewhere safe, somewhere he can’t hurt Scott more and somewhere Derek can’t hurt him more. He’s a little wary of the Sheriff, at first, after he sees him drinking alone one night. He remembers that the Sheriff is grieving, too, and he remembers what loss can do to a man, even a good one. But when he asks Stiles, hesitantly, Stiles’ protest is so swift it allays his doubts. Stiles looks at him, so appalled at the very idea, that Isaac feels like dirt for even suggesting it. But then Stiles seems to remember, too. Isaac has never told him much about his past, but he’s not surprised that Stiles found out; too many people tell him things. And it passes over, a small dark spot in what turns out to be a surprising oasis of calm.

Whatever’s going on with the Alpha Pack, they’re not letting it get to Isaac much; whatever Derek is doing, he’s keeping it close to his chest. Stiles’ frantic research is done in his room, at night, and Isaac is never invited to those sessions, because Scott is often there. The strange confrontations with the twins at school continue—escalating and de-escalating, until sometimes he thinks they’re almost having fun, until someone’s leg gets clawed, or someone gets suspended, or both at once and some non-essential brain matter spilled.

Derek came by, once, to apologize in person. Saying, “I’d have come by earlier, but they’ve been watching me, and I can only come here because they know I talk to Stiles. It would’ve looked too suspicious if I’d gone to Scott’s.”

“Yeah, and they’re monitoring your phone calls, too, huh?”

Derek looked away.

“I—I can’t look out for everyone at once, it’s too much, there’s too many of them.”

“I know,” Isaac said, “I get it. And trust me, I’d hate for you to have to kill me, too. It sucks to be the one who’s over your limit, but I get it. Family first, right?”

Derek cringed at that, and Isaac was selfishly glad to see it.

“Just—next time, if there ever is a next time, tell me why. I can handle that better. Keeping people informed is a fairly low-energy way of keeping them safe, you know? It doesn’t always have to be you swooping in to fight off evil.”

“Yeah, that’s what Stiles said.”

“I hate to say you should listen to Stiles, because that’s probably not always the best idea, but…about how to be a decent human? He’s probably not the worst source.”

Derek grimaced a little.

“And hey,” Isaac said, “my fault, too, right? The moral of the story is that you probably shouldn’t trust guys you meet in the cemetery after dark. It’s probably something parents should warn their kids about.”

Derek’s eyebrows kept sinking lower under the weight of guilt, and Isaac felt strongly tempted to throw in a few more jabs about how Derek may have lost most of his family, but Isaac has lost all of his, even Derek, who was supposed to be part of his new family.  But instead he said, “Apology accepted, OK? It’s not OK, but I don’t hate you. Go do your Alpha things. Come back when people don’t want you to murder me, and we can talk again.”

Isaac could hear Stiles yelling at Derek as he left, snippets of _that wasn’t long enough for everything you were supposed to be apologizing for_ and _damn it, Derek, he needs you_ and other things Isaac tried to block out.

After it all fell silent, Scott called—the first time he initiated contact after Isaac left the McCalls’ house—and all he said was, “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” Isaac replied, “I’m good.” Because he was. Because at some point, he can learn to stop trusting people who’ve never trusted him. People who, when told that his dad was dead, accused before thinking to offer comfort. He doesn’t need that. Someday Derek’s probably going to grow into a great Alpha, if he lives long enough and Stiles sticks around to keep him in line, but Isaac doesn’t need that. He has Scott, though not in the way he’d like, and even though it probably looks to the world like he’s an Omega right now, he knows that he’s not.

* * *

Isaac avoids Scott at work, and apparently someone told Deaton (or Deaton just knows, like he knows everything), because their schedules rarely overlap now. There are only so many after-school hours to be scheduled, and Isaac needs all he can get to prove he can support himself, so he has a suspicion that Scott has cut back his own hours. And he feels awful for that, because for him this is just a job, but for Scott it’s what he wants to do with his life. But Isaac can’t go back to the cemetery—he almost has a panic attack just thinking about it—and so he doesn’t say anything, and accepts the gift for what it is. Friendship.

* * *

Once, at the grocery store, getting snacks to hide away (from the ever-foraging Sheriff, from the ever-vigilant Stiles), blessed carbs and sugar to save his soul, Isaac sees Mrs. McCall. It’s more than a little awkward, because he can’t even remember exactly what he told her about his reasons for leaving. Something rushed and garbled about the Stilinskis having an actual sofa bed. She was really nice about it, he does remember that. In fact, she had a look on her face that made him feel like she knew exactly why he was leaving. And so…he doesn’t want to face someone else who knows. But he also doesn’t want to be rude, because there are a select number of people who he knows would never hurt him, and she’s one.

So he waves awkwardly, as she’s turning, and she gets that broad smile, says, “Isaac! Hi! It’s good to see you—how are things going with the Stilinskis? I don’t get to talk with John enough, but I’ve been checking in—he says Stiles is trying to tone down the running commentary, but you’re always welcome back, if you need some quiet.”

Isaac smiles. “Thanks. I appreciate it. But things are great, they’ve been really great to welcome me in. All of you—it’s really great of you.”

“It’s the least we can do, Isaac. You’ve been through too much. And you need _someone_ to put some meat on those bones.” She peeks into Isaac’s basket. “That being said, there is something to be said for a balanced diet.”

“No, no, this is just to hide from the Sheriff. I mean, not that—“

“I know what you mean,” she says with a laugh, “and good luck with that. He’s got the nose of a bloodhound when it comes to processed foods, you know.”

“Yeah, Stiles, too. It’s a little weird, especially since I’m supposed to be the one with the super-smell skills.”

“Oh, don’t remind me. I thought, if anything, it would make Scott a little more sensitive to the state of his room. But no. Still a slob, still smells like a teen boy who can’t be bothered to walk downstairs to do laundry.”

Isaac smiles a little awkwardly. Fights to suppress the feeling that he should be there, doing the laundry; wonders how anyone could not want to just rub their face in the smell of Scott. Except, OK, it might be weird if his mom wanted to.

“We’ve missed you,” Mrs. McCall says, “Both of us. Just so you know.”

“Thanks,” Isaac replies, “I’ve missed you guys, too. But, you know, it’s, umm—“

“I know,” she says, and the look in her eyes confirms that she really does. “Now get home and hide that contraband of yours before John gets off his shift.”

And the whole way home, chomping down Twinkies and Twizzlers like a kindergartener on Halloween, all Isaac can think about is that _both of us_. And about how many ways there are to miss someone. And how some people you can miss in that you’re glad to see them again, and you’re reminded, when you see them, how much you like them. But other people you miss every moment, and there’s no reminding, because it never goes away. And he’s glad to be missed, but he knows it’s not the same way he _misses_.

* * *

Isaac wakes one morning determined to get a tattoo. Not because Scott has one; not because he found Scott’s heartfelt mumblings and romantic islandism anything but adorably _Scott_. But for the reason almost anyone does. They look cool. And he wants to remember.

He has an image in his mind. None of the geometric nonsense that wolves seem to be all about. Nothing to mark him as part of any pack. Nothing about _belonging,_ because that’s the last thing he needs to be reminded of his crippling need for.

The tattoo artist looks at his sketch, when Isaac gives it over. Raises an eyebrow and says, “Boy, you teenagers are all about innovation these days.”

But Isaac is immune to the sarcasm of strangers. He is immune to the bite of the needle. He is immune to Boyd’s long-suffering stare when Isaac presents himself, blowtorch in hand, for the final steps. 

“I know you can’t ask Derek,” Boyd says, “But just…make Stilinski do it.”

“Stiles would faint halfway through, catch the building on fire, and burn his hands off, and then Derek would get over his morals and kill me.”

Boyd nods. “As long as you don’t think this is a thing.”

“A… _thing_?”

“Where we talk.”

“Oh, no, of course not. A thing where we _talk._ Horrors.”

And Boyd pulls the trigger balefully, but it gets the job done. And Isaac returns to the Stilinskis’ home, a little sore and a little high on endorphins, but when Stiles socks him on the shoulder as a welcome home he doesn’t even flinch.

The next morning, he twists in front of the bathroom mirror, and it’s there, a sweeping wave across his back. For what’s been washed away, for what has been washed up, for the laps he has swum and the ways he has drowned and the family that surfed until they were pulled under, for all the currents he can’t see but depends upon to keep him moving, to give him a path where he can’t find one. For the feel of ink upon his skin and the dream of a tongue to trace the lines.

* * *

Isaac moves back into his old house, finally, he and the certificate that declares him master of his own life, even though Isaac knows how laughable that is. But he’s glad for it, nonetheless. Because the Stilinskis had a routine, and he could feel himself disrupting it despite all their protests that he wasn’t. He also couldn’t stand to eat another tofu stir-fry if his life depended upon it.

“I’m a werewolf, Stiles,” he’d said, over and over, “It’s actually _healthy_ for me to eat red meat.”

Stiles frowned. “But if it’s in the house, then Dad will eat it, too. Can’t you just…get all your unhealthy foods at school? Or, like, have picnics in the park?”

“You want me to go have picnics in the park. Me and my carbs and condiments, communing with nature.”

“Well, when you put it that way it sounds ridiculous.”

So he moved back into the old house, and it was more than a little surreal. Like he’d never left. There were still glass and ceramic shards on the kitchen floor, even. He swept them up, in a daze, and with one sweep he would be back in the past, over a year ago, doing penance for a grade he just couldn’t bring up; and then the next sweep, he’d be back in the present, alone. And in the dizzying switchbacks, he couldn’t decide which was worse.

Every time he got home after school, he’d salute the flag hanging by the front door, and he’d think of his brother. Of how things used to be, when he still had his mom; and even sometimes after that, when his dad still had a golden boy to carry out his hopes and dreams.

Sometimes he’d call Stiles, and Stiles would usually talk as long as he wanted, about anything and everything, but at other times he would hem and haw a little and say he had to get going, and Isaac knew that meant Scott or Derek was there.

It wasn’t what he’d hoped for out of life, and he wasn’t cut out for being alone, not by temperament and not as a wolf, but he was surviving.

Then, one day, Scott shows up at his doorstep.

Scott looks…not good. Or, good, because he always does, but like he hasn’t been sleeping. Isaac has tried not to look at Scott too closely at school, because he knows that if he looks he won’t be able to tear his eyes away, so he’s not sure if this is a new development, or if this has been building.

“Scott, hey. Umm, do you want to come in?”

Scott looks even more uncomfortable than Isaac feels. “Yeah. I mean, well, probably. Or I could just say this and you could decide if you want me to come in. That might be better.”

Isaac blinks. “OK.”

Scott's shifting his weight back and forth between his feet, and Isaac can’t imagine Scott being this embarrassed to say anything. “Look, Scott, I think we’re past embarrassment between us, right? I mean, you’ve had to save my damsel-in-distress self while I was in a freaking hospital gown and half-drugged out of my mind, you’ve dragged me out of a closet when I was about to maul your ex-girlfriend, you’ve seen me accidentally reveal the huge crush I have on you…just spit it out and level the playing field a little.”

Scott looks like he’s trying to smile, but god, that quivering lip is the most pathetic thing ever. And so, so adorable. “I think I was wrong,” says Scott.

“Wait, about what? Or, you know what, just come in. The neighbors are gonna start perving on your hot ass. Wait, no, that’s definitely not—just forget I said that.”

Scott laughs then, and some of the nervousness seems to dissipate. “No, I’m glad—that’s actually what I’m sorry about.”

“I don’t think your ass is anything to apologize for, Scott,” Isaac says, even as he tries to hold it back. He’s spent almost a month avoiding Scott, being a better person, and now, one under-explained apology, and he’s flirting with the guy?

“No, not about that. I mean, that’s genetics' fault, right? All this junk in the trunk?” and Scott’s eyes sparkle playfully, the way they do when he jokes around with…Stiles. Oh. So this is progress. They can do the friends thing comfortably now.

“Yeah, I’ll have to thank your mom for that. Wait, no—god, just—apologize, before I say something I’m going to have to apologize for.”

Scott’s definitely gotten over his nervousness as he sprawls on the couch, laughing at Isaac. “Yeah, don’t even think about my mom like that, dude, it’s so weird. Especially considering, you know. It’s like… _Oedipal_.”

Isaac isn’t sure if he can breathe, and he thinks it’s because he’s about to die of suppressed laughter, but…”Sorry, what now?”

“ _Oedipal._ Of or relating to a desire to possess a maternal figure.”

“I’m all for vocabulary-building, Scott, but you might want to get a study guide that provides a little more context about who wants to do the possessing.”

Scott huffs, because he can probably tell Isaac’s laughing at him. But that’s good, that they can laugh at each other again. “Fine, be that way. What I was _trying_ to say—before you started making me regret it—is that, you know, I’ve missed you.”

And something deep within Isaac’s chest that’s been aching for a while now eases a bit at that statement. It was one thing to hear it from Mrs. McCall, but from Scott it's so much more. “Yeah. I’ve missed you, too. So we can hang out again now? It’s not going to be too weird?”

“No,” says Scott, eyebrows furrowing—and it would kill him to know how much he looks like a mini-Derek right now, but Isaac can’t even appreciate it because that’s his heart being crushed all over again.

“No, I mean, we can, but I meant to say was I _missed_ you,” Scott says, clearly frustrated, like the English language is a great personal letdown, “and not like I miss Stiles when he’s off eating weird foods in Poland, or like I miss everybody from school I don’t see over the summer, or even like I missed Allison while she was in France. It’s just, like…like something’s _missing,_ you know?”

Isaac is afraid to even think he knows, because what this sounds like…

“I think about things, like when we crashed on the lacrosse field, and our eyes met. And I know it wasn’t, like, this romantic meeting with sparks and everything, but—we had a bond, right? I felt it. And it’s just kept growing, until now it’s this thing that I couldn’t understand, because I’ve never felt anything like that before. With Allison, things were wonderful, and then they were painful, and I couldn’t stand not to be near her, and that’s what they say love is, you know? I think it was love. But this is…it’s not a feeling. It’s not separate. It’s just—you’re part of me now, you know? In a way that’s more than being part of my pack.”

The phone rings, then, and Isaac wants to ignore it or just dismember it into tiny irretrievable pieces, but Scott says, with relief written all over his face, “Oh, go ahead, I’ll finish after you’re done.”

So Isaac picks up. It’s Stiles. Naturally.

“Has the idiot talked to you yet? Please tell me he has. Because I’m good at keeping secrets, but not ones that are killing two of my best friends.”

Isaac’s still reeling from what the idiot in question just said, so it takes him a few seconds to process. And, hey, Isaac wonders in his haze, when did he get elevated to best friend status? He notices, out of the corner of his eye, as he heads toward the kitchen for the illusion of privacy, that Scott appears to have pulled flash cards out of his back pocket. What, he can only put studying on hold for X amount of wooing? Was this _not_ wooing? Maybe he's been reading it wrong? Except it seemed kind of obvious? And then he remembers he's on the phone, and he should answer. 

“Oh. Well, yeah, he’s here. And he’s sort of regurgitated words, but it’s a little incoherent at the moment. He actually sounds a bit like you, which considering the content is a little creepy.”

“I think I might be insulted. But there’s a greater good here that needs sorted out, so whatever. Scott’s been moping for weeks, and he wouldn’t tell me why. In fact, I’m not sure he understood why, because his brain was so programmed on Allison I’m not sure it understood how to interpret a new data set. But I did finally get it out of him—pulling teeth, let me tell you—and he’s totally gone on you. He seemed the more surprised of the two of us about it, actually. Once he had his big epiphany—and I think you can imagine the scene, he’s all, ‘Oh my god, I’m having an _epiphany,_ ’ because god damn that PSAT study book of his—he wanted to go to the tattoo shop again. ‘I’m healed, Stiles, I want a symbol to show it. Look, this is awesome, this is what I’m going to do,’ he says, and then he drew freakin’ _flowers_ wrapped around those bands. And I love Scott, and you, too, man, but lipstick on a pig is not a pretty thing, and so I told him he should talk to you first, see if maybe you wanted to express to him how you liked his pretty skin the way it was, or some such thing, before he becomes a walking billboard of fourth-grade doodles.”

When Stiles finally took a breath, Isaac tried to process.  He didn’t understand half of it, he’s not sure anyone, however well-versed in Stiles-speak, could, but—“He’s gone on me?”

“How is that what you get out of this conversation? He’s considering another _ass-ugly tattoo_ , and you’re worried about the fact that he might be in love with you?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Oh. Well, OK, fair enough. Yes. He is. Completely. And good luck with that, because Scott in love is a nauseating creature. So, yeah. Best of luck to you both? And _stop him from getting another tattoo._ ”

Isaac is giddy. He wants to hang up, dance around a bit, and then _throw_ himself upon the boy currently sitting, straight-backed and nervous as a guy on his first date, on his sofa. “You seem strangely invested in Scott’s body.”

“Pfft, I do this only as a service to the world. And you, I guess. So appreciate it. OK, I’m gonna let you go do things I don’t wanna know about to my best friend, OK?”

“OK,” says Isaac, sure Stiles can hear his smile vibrating through the airwaves, “And Stiles? Thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a saint. And somehow I’m the only one who never gets laid. I’m a _nun_ , Isaac.”

Isaac snorts. “Or a monk, maybe? But if you want to be a nun, you go for it, Stiles. See you.”

Isaac leaves the kitchen in a daze, and when he gets to the living room all he can do is stare at Scott, who is hastily shoving note cards back in his pockets.

One falls to the floor, and Isaac reaches for it.

 _Don’t talk about Allison. If you mention Allison by accident, make sure you follow it up by clarifying you’ve moved on._  And then a…maybe that’s a picture of Allison crossed out? It has prominent dimples, so…maybe? Isaac’s thinking Stilinski’s not one to talk about fourth-grade doodles.

“So,” he says, “according to Stiles, you’re ‘completely gone on me.’”

Scott blushes, and it’s cute beyond words. Isaac really does want to pinch those cheeks. “Uh, yeah. That? That’s what I said too, right?”

“You were a little less clear about it.”

“Oh. Well, that is what I was trying to say. That I like you. A lot. Like, the way I liked Allison, except I definitely don’t like Allison anymore. I mean, what I’m trying to say is—“

Isaac could probably listen to this all day, but he thinks it’s probably kinder to save Scott from his misery. So he takes a cue from the movies, and he cuts Scott off with a kiss.

And although it’s a little awkward to kiss someone when their mouth is still trying to form words, and that person has a particularly expressive mouth that opens really wide when he’s trying to say words he really means—well, it’s still not a bad solution, and it does allow Isaac’s tongue easy access. And it gets even better when Scott’s brain lets him know the conversation has evolved into something else. Something else that Scott knows how to do a lot better than confess his love, apparently.

“So, does this mean you’ll move back in with me?” Scott asks hopefully.

“I don’t think it would work now, for different reasons.”

“Like what?” Scott pouts.

“Like that you’d probably try to ravish me all the time, and your mom might not appreciate that too much.”

“Oh.”

And Scott looks so sad, so bereft, and so far from seeing the obvious that Isaac takes pity. “But I do have this whole house to myself, you know. Empty, free of potential parental interruptions. Available for you to come over whenever.”

“Oh! That’s—good!”

“Yeah,” Isaac says, a little breathlessly. He’d agree with anything Scott says, looking like this, his lips puffy and red and his scent intermingled with Isaac’s like it ought to be, always.

And then it’s rushed, and it’s tangled, and it’s under the knowledge that Stiles, despite his best intentions, might rush over at any moment with a pack emergency—until at some point, some touch, some noise, Isaac can’t remember that anymore, can’t remember his own name. And then as it spins out of control, it’s just everything.


End file.
